My Name's Alex Friday, I'm A Cop
by clueless in seattle
Summary: Alex's POV on a mysterious case and the answer to improving the ratings of CSI:NY...


_**Disclaimer:**__All of the characters are the property of Dick Wolf. I thank him, the writers, the directors and all the great actors who brought them "to life" for our benefit. Any "liberties" I have taken with them stems from my fond admiration (and a few personal quirks I will seek "help" for)._

_**AN:**__ This story is not set within the accepted "canon" for the characters as it is only officially portrayed by the TV series. So I get to "fool around" with them in ways in which they've never been seen, stretching that to the limit and suspending the "reality" that is "fiction" to start with…now there's a contradiction in terms!!! _

_(And yeah Goren I know the proper word for that is oxymoron…oh for goodness sake…that's not funny and it's not clever either…hmm…on the other hand…pretty darn sexy though…do it again…)_

_**After a night spent watching one of her favourite cop shows Alex has to tackle a mystery without Bobby's help...**_

**MY NAME'S ALEX FRIDAY, I'M A COP**

New York can be a tough city. All life is there and sometimes you see a lot of death pan out before you. Though I prefer deep pan myself with extra cheese. That's the difference between me and my partner, Bobby Goren. He's a more the putrefaction and rigor mortis guy. I'm a pepperoni and ricotta kind of gal.

It was seven-thirty when the call came in. I had just got to my desk in _Major Case_ but not had time to drink my double skinny latte. Or soak it up with three giant blueberry muffins. Three for the price of two is too good an offer to turn down. You know that kind of thing when you work in _Major Case_.

"Get up to _"The Trump Tower"_ Eames" my boss said. "There's a mystery to solve". Pity it wasn't _"Trump Mall"_ but life sucks sometimes. I went on ahead without Bobby. It meant I got to play _"Black Sabbath"_ CDs. Without those looks from him. He's more a _"Bach Mass"_ kind of guy. Or as I often say, _"You're the head case pal, I'll stick with head banging"._

At the Tower Donald was waiting. "Call me Donny" he said. I used _"Mr Trump"_ or _"Sir"_. He was after all the victim. Of very bad hairdressing. I found it hard to concentrate as he showed me the trouble. Found myself writing a list of shades I could see in his hair in my notebook. He looked more like a colour chart from _"Home Depot"_. All tones from _"hint of lemon"_ to _"chestnut surprise"_. With quite a lot of the _"ginger cotton candy"_ look going on.

His problem was obvious. You couldn't miss it. A 1959 Porsche Spyder was neatly parked inside one of the elevators. The express to the penthouse though I don't think that was significant. That miserable hobgoblin from CSI was there. "No sign of a break in. The CCTV disabled" he told me. "Don't ask me how it got in there. Good luck with this one Eames". I sensed he enjoyed that.

Trump said he'd make me his _" Apprentice"_ if I could solve this one. I said not to bother. At his age I doubted there was much he could teach me. Or if he could, the lesson wouldn't last for long. I went back to the SUV to call in the plate. Registered to some guy called Barnes. Stolen six blocks from Shea Stadium last night. There was still no answer from Goren's place. He was now very late.

I returned to 1PP. The latte was cold but I drank it anyway. I like coffee shakes. I spoke to Barnes about his car. Went out in the hall to use my cell to call Bobby. The boss had finally realised he was missing. He's not very observant. I took the stairs to _Auto Crime_ to see if there was a hot market in Spyders right now. Organised car-stealing rings. They said, "You mean like a Spyder web?" Those numb nuts think they are really funny sometimes. I don't.

Goren was now three hours overdue. He'd be in trouble bigger than his feet soon. I dialled his number again. He picked up on the fifty-fifth ring.

"Huh?" came the groan at the end of the line.

"Are you sick Goren?" I asked.

"I have been," he said "But I feel better now"

"Scotch or beer?" I enquired.

"I forget" Goren replied "Absinthe I think"

"You shouldn't drink that Bobby" I said. "It's bad for you. And it's illegal. Where have you been? Unconscious I suppose?"

"Outside" he said.

"Getting fresh air?"

"No looking for something" he paused. "I seem to have misplaced it overnight"

"Your stomach lining and several thousand brain cells I expect" I said. I wasn't feeling kind.

"Rather more than that"

"Not your library card?" I muttered, "I can't go through that again"

"No. A 1959 Porche Spyder. Belongs to my friend Nate Barnes lives over near Shea"

"Uhuh" I said giving nothing away. "Practical joke gone wrong I suppose?"

"Yeah. Dumb I know. Especially after a few beers at the game"

"I think I can help you Goren" I said.

"You can?"

"Try _"The Trump Tower"_. Specifically the express elevator" I told him. "Say hello to Donny for me while you are there"

I heard the sound of something large hitting the floor. And then silence.

I headed back north. This would be worth seeing. Goren can't park a car straight when sober. Watching him get the Spyder out of the elevator would be fun. But dangerous. I called Mack Taylor. Suggested he drop by Donald's crib. With luck I could kill two birds with one stone. Or rather Bobby might. It would cheer up the folks at CSI.

It had been a strange kind of day. I ordered pepperoni and ricotta that night. Deep pan, extra large. Some of the money Goren gave me for keeping things quiet paid for that. The rest went on shoes. And the boxed set of _"Dragnet"._

_**AN:**__ One for the more "mature" fans I think…or anyone saw the remakes!!_


End file.
